


You’re New Around Here

by Anonymous



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Attempted Murder, BAMF Dean Winchester, Canon-Typical Violence, Chuck is an asshole, Dean Winchester Has Self-Esteem Issues, Dean Winchester is a Sweetheart, Disappointed Dean Winchester, Gen, Low Dean Winchester, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-31
Updated: 2020-01-31
Packaged: 2021-02-27 13:42:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,070
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22488118
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: Dean is left alone in the bunker when Sam and Cas go on a hunt too personally risky for the older Winchester to be involved in.Chuck is still watching, though, and decides to spice up Dean’s quiet weekend at home.He’s clearly forgotten who he’s dealing with.
Relationships: Castiel & Dean Winchester & Sam Winchester, Castiel/Dean Winchester
Comments: 3
Kudos: 69
Collections: Supernatural Anon Kink Meme





	You’re New Around Here

Dean’s kind of pissed at Sam.

It’s probably - okay, completely - unfair, because while Sam knows he’s reconciled with Cas, he doesn’t know that this weekend, Dean was going to maybe go a little further than just _thank fuck you’re alive, I’m sorry, please don’t die on me, come home_ confession while they were in the bowels of purgatory, chased by Leviathan and with the clock ticking.

He’d intended to go as far in the other direction as it was possible to go, and now he’s standing staring at the ingredients he’d bought for handmade burgers, sage and onion fries, and a peach and pistachio pie for afters.

There’s even a small corner of the bunker he’s done up special for a place to have a chat to Cas, and he cringes now he thinks about it because this whole thing is ridiculous.

Cas would probably look at all of it, a meal he might not be able to eat (though his Grace is slipping, he told Dean that, and now the fear that Sam won’t keep Cas safe out there is back gnawing at him like a starving rat that won’t die no matter how many times he beats it with a shovel), and a cold corner with tacked up cheap fairy lights, a thermos of hot chocolate and some blankets to keep out the chill, and then just look at Dean for an explanation as to what it’s all for.

To him, now, it sounds tacky as fuck, but it’s not like he could afford to take Cas to a posh restaurant and then a hotel somewhere.

And that….that’s just not _them_.

But apparently neither is this.

Maybe instead of curling up his nose in annoyance at Sam, he should be thanking him because by dredging up that hunt, he probably saved Dean from utter humiliation and thoroughly embarrassing and confusing his angel.

He grabs a beer, closes over the fridge, and wonders what kind of fucked up cult insists on sacrificing every eldest brother it comes across (that it can get away with, anyway), meaning he had to stay here for fear of getting his throat slit (not that he was worried, but his family were), then realises that, by definition, all cults are fucked up.

He thinks he should probably take down the fairy lights before his family comes back and Sam stumbles across them and then Dean will never hear the end of it.

++

Chuck sighs as he watches Dean drink beer, watch a little TV, jerk off (there’s a certain sad reluctance there which he can’t quite figure out and he hates it when he’s confused as to a character’s motivation) and then do some laundry.

He’s glad this particular TV show isn’t relying on viewing figures to keep it on the air. 

He could see what Sam and Castiel are up to (he has another set tuned in on them) but he can’t quite take his eyes off the bunker cam.

Dean isn’t really going to just mope the whole weekend, is he?

Chuck grins as an idea comes into his head.

No. He’s not.

++

There’s a loose tile in the bathroom wall, and it’s where Dean hides his personal products.

He’s got no problem sharing with Sam (despite his denials, he’s the reason Sam’s special shampoo goes down a lot quicker than his brother can believe, but that shit’s good) but this would see Sam teasing the utter shit out of him and he has no intention of opening himself up to that.

The bubble bath smells like lavender, and sinking into a tub of hot water turned purple and scented with it is like being slowly dipped into warm liquid silk.

The tension does drain out of him, and he lies back against the tub, lets his eyes drift close, and just chills.

His mind goes places, when does it not, but it’s not the places he expects.

He doesn’t worry about his guys hunting alone, because Sam’s as much of a veteran at this as he is and knows his stuff.

Cas is still an angel, with hundreds of years or more of combat experience and a near depthless knowledge of lore and protective / combat magic.

They will look after each other and bring each other back home.

No, while he does think about Cas, it’s other thoughts, different thoughts, crazy things like maybe what their lives would be like if he ever gets to have that talk with Cas. 

And Cas is amenable, and they sort their shit out, and he knows somewhere in that he’ll end up getting the angel a guinea pig and Sam a dog, because the angel will wrap him around his wing, and he suspects the two of them will milk his new found sappiness for all he’s worth.

And he wouldn’t mind it, not really.

It’s a pleasant kind of waking dream, as he floats happily in the middle of it, not caring that he’s going to look like a prune when he gets out.

++

He doesn’t normally punish the men.

It’s the women, wanton, low, evil. Contaminating everything and everyone with their base natures, forcing him to cut their wickedness out of society.

They taunt him, until he opens his bag and takes out his knives, and then they taunt him no more.

But for this man, he might make an exception. 

He watches him lounge in the water, the overwhelmingly sickening scent like a whore’s boudoir, and he can hear his thoughts (he can always hear their thoughts, it’s why they can never hide what they are from him), his lustful plans for an _angel_ of all things, and, yes…

This one is as bad if not worse than any of the foul creatures he dealt with, like amputating a diseased limb to save the body, and though he has no idea where the place is or how he came to be here…

He has work to do. A duty to fulfil, and he understands very well the importance of such things.

++

Dean hears a single footstep (and how exhausted and strained must he have been that it’s all he hears), and opens his eyes.

He’s leaning back, head resting on the rim, and there’s someone standing over him.

Dude’s tall, built, and dressed in black from head to toe. He’s wearing some kind of freaking cape, not like Batman, but more like...it’s just clothing. And he has on a hat, like the ones all the gentlemen seem to in those movies about Britain in Victorian times.

For just one moment, Dean thinks Sam’s back and, for some crazy reason, dressed up like a dumbass to try and scare him.

He’s grinning until he sees something short bladed and sharp come scything down towards him, and instinct takes over.

Dean lets himself slip under the water, sees the scalpel dig a line into the enamel where his neck would have been a second before.

Holy actual fuck, who is this guy?

Before he can do anything else, the figure drops the blade and reaches down to grab at Dean’s neck and shoulders.

He’s got the advantage of weight and position, and Dean kicks and struggles as he’s pinned under.

But his position also gives him some advantage, with the way the guy’s leaning forward to use his bulk to hold him beneath the water.

Dean brings his knee forward hard, cracking it against the guy’s head, and his attacker falls away, tumbling out of sight.

Hacking, unsteady, Dean flops out of the tub more than climbs out, but he’s out anyway, and hauling himself to his feet.

So is the intruder. Like this, Dean knows he’s not going to win a fight, naked, soaking wet and unarmed.

He’s got to regroup, and so he bolts for the door, figuring to reach the nearest place he’s got a gun taped up for unexpected situations where one might come in handy (this, this definitely qualifies).

But he’s no sooner into the corridor than he hears footfalls hot behind him. He doesn’t look back, because what’s the point?

He knows who he’ll see, and so he concentrates on just keeping his footing, hard since he’s barefoot and his soles are still damp, and making sure he keeps ahead.

++

This, Chuck thinks, this is better.

He’s slouched in his easy chair, watching Dean almost bounce off the walls, pushing off every corner to give himself just that extra foot of distance between him and his unexpected guest.

He wonders if Dean’s figured out just who’s chasing him down, but probably not; to be fair, playing ‘Guess Who’ is right then a secondary concern to avoiding getting his throat slit open.

Of course, now he’s eager to see how this will play out. At some point, Dean will make a stand. He’ll either turn and fight (when he’s ready to do so, Chuck guesses, since fighting while nude and just out of a bath you nearly got drowned in probably limits your combat capabilities), or find a gun or other weapon and just kill his would be murderer, or…

Or Jack will kill him.

Chuck isn’t sure if he’ll let it go that far; he’s kind of enjoying the game, the different narrative lines he’s trying out, but there’s all the same a certain attraction in letting Dean get sliced open and letting Sam and Castiel find his body when they return.

The _man pain_. And _angel pain_.

Well, he’ll have to see how it plays out, but for now he’s content to watch Dean run for his life.

++

He needs a plan, one better than just fleeing through the corridors.

The guy chasing him is fast, so fast that Dean knows he can’t afford to slip or stumble, and even try to get in any of the rooms he passes.

This dickwad behind him would be on him before he could even push over the door.

Speed, being just that little bit quicker than the man chasing him, is his only defence.

But it won’t do long term; he’ll tire or trip, or the guy will get angry enough to get faster and then that scalpel will be buried in his throat.

When he sees a faint glow up ahead, Dean realises he’s almost at the little nook he’d set up for him and Cas, and it’s not great, but it’s better than what he has now which is nothing against somebody bigger and stronger than him, fully clothed and armed with a scalpel.

He drags some extra speed up from somewhere because he needs to be a clear first around that corner up ahead, needs enough time to be ready, and he is, though barely.

It’s enough time to snatch up one of the blankets he’d left folded for later, and to throw it over the guy when he comes flying around the corner, swiping his scalpel in a wide swing like he expected to just fall on Dean there.

He yells in surprise, reaches up to tear the blanket away, and Dean doesn’t give him the chance.

He grabs the Thermos, metal, solid, and cracks the bastard right over the head with it.

It’s a hell of a blow, and it puts him on his knees, but it’s not enough to take him out. He’s trying to get back up, clawing weakly at the blanket, jerking the scalpel clumsily in all directions out of desperation.

Dean grabs the fairy lights he’d stuck to the wall, tears the end section loose and wraps it around the guy’s neck, at least what he hopes is his neck.

And pulls.

It’s hard, the bulbs digging into his palms, the guy struggling against him. It’s almost like riding that mechanical bull, but if he doesn’t hold on he’s had it.

Dean drives his knee into the guy’s back and yanks the string of lights as taut as he can. They’re still twinkling away, and it’s bizarre, like he has nothing else to worry about, but suddenly he’s so pissed at this guy not for trying to murder him, but because he had plans tonight.

And maybe it was tacky as fuck, but their corner, his and Cas’s corner, had been perfect. 

Now it was ruined, and Dean realises he’s had enough with Chuck or life or what/who ever fucking things up for him.

He digs his knee in harder, crosses his hands over and that’s it.

Done.

The guy turns into a dead weight, literally, hanging from the string of fairy lights wrapped around his neck.

Dean holds on another few seconds just in case, and then drops him. He kicks the blade from the man’s hand (amazing, he’d held on to all this time) and then tugs the blanket back.

He has never laid eyes on this guy before, but there’s still something kind of familiar about him.

But he is dead, and Dean slumps down against the wall, tired but still full of questions.

++

He probably can’t blame Sam for nerding out on this one, although he’d be a little happier if Sam remembered the guy he’s examining was chasing him through the halls with fucking scalpel a few hours ago.

Cas seems disinterested in the man’s identity, but looks like he wants to bring him back to life again so he can smite him for attacking one of his humans, and Dean won’t deny he’s kind of basking in the wave of protectiveness and caring from the angel (Cas has also healed his injuries, which were minor anyway, but that always feels good).

“This...Dean, this is a big deal. A really, really big deal.”

Yeah, the guy nearly slit his throat open, Dean gets it.

He looks expectantly at Sam.

“You don’t know who this is?”

That’s the big question. Who is he, how did he get in?

Well, that last one, Dean expects the answer will be Chuck, since the door was still locked, the wards were in place, and that leaves Cas’s deadbeat dad as the only plausible explanation.

But the who...Dean still feels like he’s seen the guy before, though he has no idea where.

Sam sighs, and grabs his phone.

“That clothing...it’s what you’d expect a well to do, high born gentleman to be wearing in Victorian London. Around a certain time frame. Probably one of the most notorious periods in London’s history.”

“So, what, he’s some crazy cos player that tried to slit my throat?”

Sam looks up briefly. “I don’t think he was playing.”

No shit. Dean was the one who had to throttle him to death.

Sam hands over his phone, and Dean tilts it so Cas can see too.

“There’s been any number of conspiracy theories as to his identity,” Sam explains. “Even the queen ordered the police to apprehend him at all costs, but he was never found, and the killings just stopped. And he…”

Sam looks at the body stretched out on the infirmary table.

“He was one of the suspects, and a lot of people believed that because the police never managed to catch anybody it meant they were protecting somebody very important.”

Dean looks from the picture on Sam’s phone to the body and back again.

Yeah, it’s the same guy.

Albert Victor. _Prince_ Albert Victor.

Holy shit.

“Do you know what this means? We’ve solved the mystery of Jack The Ripper’s identity.”

Solved seems a weird way of putting it, but he’s not going to spoil Sam’s excitement. That’ll come when his brother realises he can’t exactly write a book about it.

 _Dedicated to my brother, Dean, for almost getting his neck slit from ear to ear when our worst enemy ever transported a psycopathic killer from the 19th century to our bunker in Lebanon for dramatic effect_.

“Let’s just…”. Dean yawns. He’s tired, and Sam is tired and Cas is tired, and His Royal Highness Albert Victor is _dead_. “Dump his body in the fridge and we’ll burn it in the morning.”

He nods towards the big thick door at the back of the infirmary, wondering again just what the former occupants of their home got up to that they needed a walk in body freezer and, once again, deciding it’s probably better if he doesn’t know.

He waits until Sam’s wheeled old Jack out of sight, and then turns to Cas.

“I know it’s late,” he says, and almost grins as the song starts up in his head. “But can I show you something?”

Cas nods, no hesitation, as if no matter how tired he is, he’ll always find energy for Dean.

And it doesn’t matter in the end that there’s no thermos (they only had one and Dean put it to a use probably beyond what the manufacturers had intended), or that half the fairy lights don’t work now, and the rest keep frizting out since he probably burst a wire in there somewhere.

Or that there’s less blankets since the one he used to save his own life is draped over the body Sam’s stowing in the morgue.

It’s all perfect anyway.

++

Chuck knows he should be pissed, but he can’t quite find it in himself.

It was certainly entertaining, watching Dean’s bare ass as he ran around the bunker pursued by a gothic serial killer.

Kind of like _Benny Hill_ meets _Hammer House of Horror_.

But he knows he shouldn’t be surprised that Dean survived; he’s Dean Winchester, after all, and maybe he should have warned Jack what he was getting into.

Now there was a creation, and Chuck bathes in the pride of it for a moment. Rich, powerful, evil and tormented by the thoughts he could pick up from his victims.

The telepathy was a nice touch, and one of the ways he’d avoided capture so long; that, plus the establishment took steps to ensure he was never apprehended.

A mother’s love.

Still, he feels like this particular story has some more life in it. Just a little tweaking, because it’s missing something.

And then it hits him. What it’s lacking.

Something that can save any story, as far as he’s concerned.

Zombies.

Grinning, Chuck flips the TV channel so he can see inside the bunker morgue, to where Jack’s body is lying under that blanket, awaiting disposal by pyre in the morning.

Slowly, his hand begins to twitch.


End file.
